In one town, a reindeer crown was repaired with a bone from a local museum. From that day forward, went the legend, the crown glowed with a spectral light, especially when the wearer neared water. The wearer also gained the ability to identify water underground, to divine where locals should build wells.
In another legend, the wearer of the crown—a young man of immense beauty—danced beyond the outside farms to the nearby swiftly flowing river. There, he leapt in and transformed into a merman with a glittering tail.
The reindeer crown with its added bone later washed ashore. No dancer ever wore it again.
* * *
Leaving the abbey warming room, Frankie spotted Phillipe standing beside Xavier. They lingered in the long meadow, ancient stone walls at a distance. When the sun meandered from behind scudding clouds, its light gilded tree tops.
Phillipe and Xavier stood shoulder to shoulder, both lean and inherently nervy, Phillipe only slightly taller. Xavier was speaking quickly, his low chuffed tone apparent to Frankie even from a distance.
Then Phillipe’s mouth twisted downwards in exasperation and Xavier mouth twisted upwards in glee.
Phillipe said, “Apparently, the Farage family dumped the bone at a museum where it was later used in a horn dance. The dance is a celebration from pagan times, maybe, or a celebration of hunting rights, more likely. But the so-called horn on one of the headdresses or crowns is supposedly Lady Margaret’s rib.”
“That particular headdress is attached to water-based miracles,” Xavier said innocently.
“Miracle grab bag. Though—” Phillipe conceded “—the stories about it could indicate some forgotten connection. From saintly relic to ceremonial addition.”
“Or Lady Margaret is still working to save souls,” Xavier said, still innocently.
Frankie could only assume that he was deliberately winding Phillipe up.
And Phillipe said tetchily, “By throwing the wearers into rivers?”
“Siphons prefer water, don’t they? Or need it, anyway.”
“I think a saint would be a little less parochial.”
“Did you locate the bone?” Frankie said since Phillipe and Xavier could clearly continue this argument—courtship—whatever—indefinitely.
“Victor is working on the legal paperwork. The headdress is kept at the museum, and the board isn’t opposed to testing, but they want to preserve chains of evidence.”
Phillipe snorted. “After all this time, the bone could turn out to be from a bear.”
“Or not,” Frankie said.
“Even if it is Siphon, even then, that doesn’t mean it’s from the sixth century or from Lady Margaret. It won’t prove anything, not really.”
“Circumstantial evidence does count for something,” Frankie said evenly.
Phillipe, brows drawn, frowned at distant prospects. Xavier watched him and Frankie, eyes hooded.
Phillipe returned his gaze to Frankie. He said, “You think I pretended about Xavier, that I deliberately made myself think he didn’t exist or something. I knew I had a Cubus. But that type of knowing doesn’t count. My thoughts. My emotions. I don’t suppress them or whatever. But I’m not going to live in that world. Not in my head. Whatever people think. I have to deal with what-is to keep myself honest. I can’t give in to whatever floats across my synapses.”
Phillipe said to Xavier, “I couldn’t just like the thought of you—as if you were a reflection of my wants, an amalgam I created in my head. That’s not trustworthy.”
Xavier nodded. “Not a meeting of the minds.”
No.
Frankie turned away to track down Victor and Justin. Phillipe came up beside her, earnest and hunched. She had a sudden picture of Phillipe and Xavier in old age, Phillipe slightly stooping as he propounded on texts, his hair ruffled, his feet tapping; Xavier, winking at him under shaggy, silvering hair.
Phillipe said, “Are you going to support Lady Margaret’s Cause, recommend sainthood?”
“Do you really think I shouldn’t?”
“I hate Causes decided on politics.”
Except they kind of all are.
Frankie said, “I know. But we have decent material, here, more than for many saints, even if we focus on one particular thread.”
“Bamburgh to Faroe Islands to the Isle of Man?”
“To the Holy Well and Saint Bettelin’s care.”
“Neat and tidy,” Phillipe said grumpily. He might have been spitting expletives.
“Plausible.”
“Anything is plausible. Francesca, it matters. It matters that we don’t turn history into what we want it to be, negatively or positively.”
Except we will anyway.
Will wasn’t with her. She wasn’t like Phillipe to constantly doubt her fleeting emotions and thoughts and surmises. Will had backed off—which was well-mannered, she supposed. He wasn’t the same as one of her boyfriends who never collected information yet took it upon himself to pronounce what Frankie was thinking: what she wanted, what she should do next. Will didn’t interfere.
On-paper, Frankie couldn’t see anything to complain of in their relationship, but paper wasn’t reality. All the stories and explanations and excuses in the world didn’t make something endurable or desired.
Victor and Justin came along the path and settled easily on the grass before her. Victor’s cherubic face glowed. Justin tucked arms around his knees.
Victor said, “The quick DNA test indicates Siphon ancestry. Possibly.”
“Lots of humans have a bit of Siphon ancestry,” Justin said. “So it isn’t conclusive, of course. The complete test might pinpoint a clan and a time period.”
“Quick radiocarbon dating indicates the medieval era. And the span for that test is far greater.”
Frankie nodded. She could hardly say, not to these two innocents, Perhaps, we should stop here. We have enough evidence to make our case. Too much could spoil it.
But then, neither Victor nor Justin were fools. They likely knew, as Frankie did, that future tests would likely not turn up anything that would negate the possibility of Lady Margaret. Everything was close enough.
But was it? How far did one go to achieve perfection? Or was perfection on the table? Was compromise Frankie’s mandate here—promoting the Lady Margaret that fit well enough? Or was her mandate to propose what she trusted to be the truth?
She went to find Will. She couldn’t see him, of course. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But they were at a religious institution, and Cubi tended to congregate around leaders who might have some say in how Cubi were perceived: angels, demons, or sentient and falliable beings.
“You’re with the Lady Margaret Cause? I’m Friar Hopkins. How do you do? I know the bishop would like to speak to you at some point about how the Cause is progressing.”
“Of course,” Frankie said, who had made many such summations in her career. “Is there general support for the idea?”
“My Cubus is thrilled,” Friar Hopkins said cheerfully and hurried off to greet an incoming group.
A marriage party, Frankie saw. She supposed she wasn’t surprised to hear Will’s voice.
“One notable feature of Englishers: they don’t mind possible hauntings. The more entities present at a wedding, the better.”
She didn’t pause. There was something to be said for not having to wait to make eye contact.
She said, “You have every right to your own thoughts and plans, Will. I’ve never contested that.”
“I know, Frankie.”
Another point in Will’s favor. Not like the boyfriend who determined that since Frankie did the “public relations grind,” she should use the same skills with him: Ask me questions, learn about my day, listen to me pontificate. Isn’t that a woman’s responsibility? As if she was a kind of sounding board, a mere reflection for his personality. Everything one-sided.
Guess I have a type.
Well, that’s going to change.
“I can’t accept your use of me.”
“Frankie—”
“I don’t want you to feel alone, Frankie.”
“I do. You can go, Will. If you stay? Lurk? However you want to present yourself? You help. I don’t mean you start giving me instructions. But you don’t stop at commentary. You supply information.”
She waited, eyes on the almost vibrating green, on the couples and individuals who strolled on the grass (no “Stay Off” signs here).
“Okay,” Will said. “What information do you need, Francesca?”
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